Requiem
by Taransay
Summary: Vorador and Malek battle within the aftermath of Revenge. Reprisal concluded, though it does not bring back ones Sire, and loneliness still remains.
1. Preamble

_**Vorador etc. are © to Eidos Interactive and Crystal Dynamics**_

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**Requiem**

_By Taransay  
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**Preamble **

"I have yet to see what you find so fascinating about the landscape, my landscape at that." 

"I like to watch it change my lord, I like to watch the mists rise, and how it settles on the breeze. It is quite beautiful in many ways…"

He listened to her words like he had often done; he understood what she spoke of, the beauty that she saw, the picturesque landscape, the way it was shaped and indeed how the mist lingered. In currents of silky threads that wound throughout the terrain with delicate fingers it touched and reached out in all parts. Those unaware of such an element could quite easily become lost, and yet they remained easy pickings to all those who were younger then he.

With a shift in movement she felt his presence behind her, dominance, and a strong dominance at that. Her Vampiric lord had a habit of quite easily dominating places with his ever lingering appearance which would just appear out of nowhere many times. Rooms in which he could be found sat in upheld that dominance throughout, and upon her first meeting with him she had been nothing short of terrified due to this element of power he upheld.

Nevertheless, times waned… and she was to see another side to him. 

The feeling of closeness was swift to follow, so familiar from past times and ever so gentle, his lips touched her cheek leaving a kiss to rest upon her face. 

"Thank you my lord." She whispered under a hushed breath.

His claws he lifted to run through her hair, an affectionate gesture and one that she savoured highly. In his entire possessive overtone she was his, as the others had been. One of the last of what had been his own gathering of companions, she… one of his brides, strange… Strange because in a way this remaining one pinpointed all that had been, one who had managed to survive from the very beginning, and one now surviving to the very end. Such morbid thoughts as these were the only thing his mind dwelled on, yet he attempted not to let it show, attempting to keep a hold of things even as it was the others dwindled into nothingness around him…   
Nights had been full of their cries and in bitterness he came to understand that there was nothing he could do about it.

If his spirit still remained then he would have attempted to fight all that was going on around him, but his spirit was lacking, and although he would cover it up with his own gesture and remarks the fight continued and he acknowledged that he was loosing… Times had passed, and he had given up long ago, with words he spoke quite often 'let them have it.'

Withdrawing from such had been easy, it was easy to leave a world that cared not much for you, and yet the everlasting sorrow remained, all those that interfered were put to silence, and silence was merciless at times.

This moment, within this room proceeded, the open window and the landscape around, everything changes…

Although the moment seemed one of affection there was something of forebode that lingered throughout the air. Yes, it was there and both of them sensed it, like some presence that waited with malice for a moment to strike. And yet he pushed it aside, denying it the reason to why it was present, denying it the grasps that it needed to waylay him in forgotten history, much like what had happened to his Sire… did he fear it as much as she, the ever moment of what must be? 

"The sun will set upon us my Lord." Her words were fortified in a sudden omen that even he knew he couldn't avoid, much like his Sire had been unable to avoid his own. And yet with another swift kiss he whispered the words 'nonsense' into her ear and then departed. How could he tell his child of darkness that he knew she was right, the Vampires were but a dying race…

Corridors lay empty, silent… dormant and withdrawn from such days when life had been apparent, well 'life' of sorts. But they had been certainly kept company with the on goings of others of his kind. His many spouses and companions once lingered here, as did others who had been drove from their homes, and in constant despair for his own race he had offered them shelter within the walls of his home. 

The emptiness had never bothered him before; furthermore, he had quite enjoyed the peace. And yet those times of peace and quiet had been better times. Times when… he shook his head, there was no point in reminiscing on what had been for he could never bring them back.

And ahead the future looked uncertain, how could he protect all of his kind, especially those he held dear who still remained? 

With a prolonged sigh Vorador took up a chair near an open fire, the flames leaping in some bitter statement, as it was they lay siege upon a single log that remained. He allowed the fire to die down, watching it through narrowed eyes; the dying fire was but a statement, a gesture, an image of himself and those like him.

Immortal and yet truly dying… 

It was the truth, and one he knew he couldn't escape; sadness and fate had a habit of merging together like that, and in the cruellest of ways. 

As the last embers died away there was a sound elsewhere, silence broken by the intrusion of another… And he knew the time was now, and that they had come…


	2. Tears of Blood

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**Chapter 1**

**Tears of Blood  
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When one imagines what has been it is always simple to remember the most poignant marks within life, or within existence at the very least. Throughout scenes memories are recalled, those that are firm, those that are fixed, and those that bring emotion to the strongest points…

The forest stretched through unwinding valleys, it was fresh, lush, green, whilst nimble threads of moonlight picked their way through emerald leaves that hung limply in a forgotten breeze. A vast landscape of forever changing times, molded and shifted to the movement of the land, wrought around Mortal life.

Nothing stirred, and those on watch found it quite easy to forget of the 'dangers' that supposedly went on around them.

Leaning against his pike one watchman closed his eyes, it was all to easy to fall asleep within such circumstances, here, this silence, this stillness, and the warm atmosphere of what was a humid night.

Abruptly he was elbowed in his ribs, and with a groan he realized that it was all too ironic to find peace easily like that.

"Don't get falling asleep idiot." His companion on watch hissed, straightening himself up and re-griping his swords hilt whilst giving the blade a look over.

In response the weary guard snorted whilst he fumbled in one of his garment pockets. "This is idiotic, nothing is going to happen." He made a gesture. "Too quiet for there to be any ruckus tonight, trust me." And with this he smirked. "I know of these things, besides I am too spent to go after anything even if something did happen." 

It was a foolish remark, his companion knew this, never underestimate the night, especially when it remained silent. 

"Easy pickings you are then… fool." 

The weary guard rolled his eyes and glanced away, his companion was well known for over reacting. 

Silence. Silence is quite the fragmented creature, on one side silence can be quite soothing and endearing on the other it can bring nothing but danger. It lulls all those unknowing into a false sense of security, it leads them astray, and then it captures them. Like a spider's web, how captivating and how unseen it is to the fly. Unknown to it, a predator waits and then finally advances. 

The night was like that, especially at these times and when in the midst of the night when there is silence and silence is broken only Chaos follows.

At such a moment so the silence was defeated, in the hub of the darkness came a sudden cry, words shouted in a females voice, a sudden scream, a warning, a call for help and the words that followed, Vampire…

"Vampire!" Her voice ignited the whole forest, vocals shrill to the oncoming creature, this Vampire who leered at her with a smile and slight chuckle that was set deep within his own voice.  
"Quite right." He added closing in where it was he had entrapped her on his own accord. But she wasn't easily distilled, fierce was the soul that burnt deep within, and yet on all accounts this made the challenge that every bit more fun. Her hands held tightly onto a branch that she had found on the floor when peril first appeared, not the most ideal weapon but it was useful enough to help keep her life intact until help came, that's if help was coming. A sudden thought was soon to paralyze her body; perhaps she hadn't shouted loud enough, panic twisted her opinions and perception, should she shout again?

The situation was all too fear provoking, she had been stupid to leave the safety of the town, this she knew and yet there was no way out now… No way… Realization was quick to set in, and when it did it set in deep, scaring her senses and motivating her to flee and yet that was easier said then done. 

When he advanced she would back away, bringing up the pathetic stick in defense, which he found nothing but amusing and yet he had patience to allow this battle waltz to sing itself the duet.

Then again, endurance was discharged when it was he took another stride closer and she swiped the stick across his claws. It hadn't been painful, and in all truth he had hardly felt it, however, in a natural reaction he retaliated, his movement quick, one strike and the stick fell from her hands. 

In such a deed no reply was made, the young woman stood still looking at the one who had pursued her. Inside her heartbeat was unfaltering and strong, and yet it remained unsteady in sudden terror, whilst within her lungs fought for air all in the sudden rush to keep adrenalin going and her blood flow flowing. 

With such a corollary it only made the situation even more poignant, for the smell of her blood only became stronger. And yet even though the situation was highly tempting this Vampire remained well focused and composed, this made the young woman shudder inside.

There was a lingering pause, the forest as silent as ever, it was as if the scenery waited for something to happen, with upheld breath Nature awaited for someone to move. Nature, it awaited for an outcome, it waited for the final conclusion with baited breath, putting a hold on all functions of natural reaction bringing all attention to be focused upon this one moment. 

The Mortal didn't move because she knew he would be quick to respond, if she attempted to run he would no doubtfully bring her down without hesitation.

Still the pause, the ever waiting, the lingering, the whole moment was painful, as if to wait for a death sentence to be passed. 

When one of them finally moved it was he, for now she seemed completely still. Many times he had seen this reaction, many times whilst hunting, in final moments the prey would remain immobile, like they were finally accepting what was happening, as if they had given up anyway because their death was immanent. Those that did struggle would finally give up as well, normally growing limp in the arms that held them still, slowly closing their eyes, fear dispelled, a final breath…

But this situation was different; he had searched this one out as she had been leaving her town. Inside he smiled, perhaps that had been his doing, for some Mortals were known to come if he beckoned, this method had always proved to be an easy way of feeding on nights when he was too tired to hunt. 

Nonetheless, something about her unsettled him; the look within her eyes contained fear and yet even more so was the strong hue of hatred. 

And yet wasn't he used to that? That look of hatred, he had seen it quite often since his first breath, many times, yes… Hatred was nothing but a natural reaction to Mortals, and it was steamed from the very threads of fear. As his Sire had stated many times, Mortals feared everything they didn't understand. It was true, that was why many of them feared death, because death was unknown to them, something they couldn't comprehend and so they feared it… and some even despised it. As for him, well he wasn't sure of how he looked upon death, such an element wasn't really that known to him. 

It would have been foolish if he had stated that he was far from Death's reach, for inside he knew that that wasn't all that true. Death could come to him, yet he knew how to avoid it. 

He went to approach her again and she was quick in attempting to recoil and yet got nowhere fast as his claws were soon tightly secured around her wrist and with that he mercilessly dragged her to him.

His captive flayed to her knees in hope of deterring him and in spite of that was pulled back up, mouth opened as if to give out a silent scream, no sound came out, her vocals seized to function properly as did her muscles and no protest was made, her entire movement or fight she would have made had been silenced. Tightly in the grasp of trepidation and secured in the hold of a Vampire it seemed that this was where her lifeline ran out, ended, finalized and all to sustain another's life such as this creature. It was irony. 

The young woman felt her head turned to one side; a claw touched her neck that was now vulnerable to his hunger and his acknowledgement of power that had been proved to be brutal at a majority of times. 

It was these moments that he savored highly; so close was one whimsical life which he could crush all too easily if he so desired, with a simple movement, one that wouldn't take much effort he could break her neck… 'And then feast upon what remained.' His mind was quick to reply in wit.

But none of such brutality was done; instead he used his claw to brush away the parts of her hair that fell gently upon her skin, satisfying himself that he could see the blood pulsate underneath her membrane of skin. 

Yet the moment wasn't to last, and it was she who gave her 'rescuers' away. Her eyes swiftly darting from where they had remained fixed upon her captor to behind him, and the snap of the branch under foot only certified the suspicion that someone was going to launch an attack from behind.

Devoid of caveat the Vampire turned, his own blade was drawn with irregular fleetness that the hunter who came forth didn't even foresee the impeding danger.

The sharp bite of the blade running through his chest was the last thing he felt, a flourish of crimson liquid, his eyes rolled back into his head before he dropped to the floor. 

From where the hunter had attacked came a curse as others made themselves seen, six of them all together, or their had been, subsequently their were now only five that remained, the horror on their faces meant nothing to the Vampire. Their horror was of loathing different to how hers had been. 

And now she was being hauled closer to him, her heart, which had settled moments before, was once again racing within her chest, her eyes wide, looking to the hunters in hope of some solace. 

"Release her evil filth!" A typical insult from someone of a lower town, the Vampire scoffed and glanced around. What was this, no Sarafan? How disappointing… Instead all that there was were these dilapidated hunters, makeshift protectors of their towns, those not quite cut out to be of the Sarafan, lacking in discipline or lacking in skill. Whatever it was the Vampire was only insulted by their mere presence here. 

Vampire and young woman took a step back her being secured in the grip of this figure that dominated the area with a subtle and yet viscous power that remained unseen. His sword clinched in one hand whilst his other encircled around the woman's waste.

Another step backwards, slowly the Vampire began to sheath his sword, and yet he didn't remain weaponless, his claws were perfect should he need to use them. 

"Release her." The hunter who had spoken before advanced forwards, bent in waiting anticipation, his sword waiting to respond. Young and foolish, he was of no threat.

In retort the Vampire lifted his now free hand and ran a claw down his captives face, slight blood was drawn which made way, running down the side of her cheek almost as if it was meant to be a watery tear.

A reaction was quick, "Bastard!" His sword came up, arching and progressing an attack. But it didn't worry the Vampire, everything the Vampire did was set to mock them, every gesture, every movement, everything, it was done in teasing intimation, on conclusion he was so far from their grasps, they couldn't harm him, and yet he was careful not to become too foolish.

Before long he took the blood from her. But such only created chaos, an angry snarl from the hunter fortified his feelings as he lurched forwards eager for his blade to touch Vampiric flesh, brusquely the others held him back, knowing how foolish it would be if he suddenly attacked like that. Hadn't he leant from the others advancement, the one who was now lying dead on the floor? Obviously not because he was quick to struggle in hope of getting free so that he could put an end to that creatures life. And yet they remained rigid in their hold upon him and quick to remind him that it was not wise to suddenly attack like that.

"The Bastard is tainting her!" 

"Wait Mathye, wait!"

"I will not!" Their grasps were loosened, he slid free, conceited in his young age to lay claim on a Vampire's life, and one such as this one in particular, such a trophy this one would be. Anyone who brought this one down would been seen as quite the hero, his heart was eager for such a title, yet it was more eager to bring an end to this situation.

The whole state of affairs was one of disarray, splashed on an uneven canvas of nothing more then bloodlust and pure hatred. Such emotions were quick to set and radiate from both sides. On one side the Vampire that lusted for blood, on the other those that lay claim upon it. In either case a question was emitted to who was the one to blame, perhaps in either accounts they were as bad as each other.

Tension was ripe nonetheless, the scuffle which had emanated to hold the younger hunter back was now pushed aside as this young one, Mathye, was tempting the very factor of fate as if symbolized by the Vampire. 

It was almost like a kiss, gently lapping up the blood that had descended down her face, but he took no more. It was tempting to, alluring to wrap her in an embrace like he had done many times before and draw upon the very essence that her life worked upon.

The Vampire looked up and reverted his gaze upon the very kind that had hunted his own, it was hard not to despise them. And all that remained now of the blood from the wound he had afflicted was a smudge that ran down the one side of her face; in this moonlight she could have been Vampiric herself.

Satisfaction written on the Vampire's face, Mathye snarled with disdain. He was working against the very factors that the Vampire laid down, the torment the creature of the night added, and Mathye was responding exactly how he wanted him to. 

Yet the other hunters stood firm, their faces composed, the youngest and the one who had spoken the most out of the group, Mathye, was still ahead of them, wielding his weapon and yet he could advance no more, not whilst this creature had a hold of his sister.

These circumstances were annoying, caught up deep within limbo, and at that moment the Vampire had the upper hand, and he wasn't afraid to show it either. 

Mathye let out another warning, just so the Vampire knew that they were still there.

It was all to easy to destroy her, but he wanted to see their reactions, he wanted to see their horror as he took the little blood that he did, it was those reactions within them that made him reside in satisfaction. Cattle, here to provide him with the substance he needed. 

His grip was tight upon her arm and with this the Vampire pulled her even closer, his breath upon her cheek, as he took in the scent of her blood, and then into her ear he whispered, "We shall meet again… soon…" Mockery, satisfaction, or acknowledgement? 

This battle had not been won and yet a triumphant look was soon to gleam within the ancient Vampire's eyes, he looked up in a capricious manner, the slight smile parted his lips, and a flicker of humor played throughout his whole mannerism. 

Devoid of forewarning he thrust the young woman forwards into the approaching hunters arms. It was met as Mathye gripped her tightly and glared a head of him with contempt written deep, with a gruff shout the others readied themselves, now was the time, preparing to silence this monstrosity and yet the Vampire was swift to exit.

With a gesture and mock bow his image disappeared into emptiness leaving nothing but the echo of his harsh and mocking threads of vocals emitted in laughter to remain.

"Vorador!" Mathye hissed, the Vampire's name spoken like a venomous curse, but all was still. Inside his senses were rigid in a sudden back wave of oncoming anger.

"Search the forest, I want that Bastard found!" He added, retracing his steps and nearly staggering over a tree route, his lips twisted in an utmost display of his own hatred lingering within. 

"Pah, no chance." An older and more weathered hunter spoke whilst sheathing his sword, he found Mathye's annoyance quite amusing, it was displayed normally within the younger hunters and it showed lack of experience. "Vorador was created long before you were even born, and he will outlive you too my lad." 

A disgruntled look crossed Mathye's face, that is what all of them thought, if there was one Vampire that was impossible to capture it was Vorador, that and Janos Audron. In speaking such names he made a holy sign, and despite himself he shuddered only to receive a comradely thump on the back from the older hunter.

"Aye lad, we all feel the same, but she's safe… unlike Edward."

"For now." His vocals shook a little, those words remained firm to truth, his sister was lucky, they all were, except the fallen Hunter. For stories were told often, in the safety of your home such stories were enjoyable, whilst the winds echoed outside your door one could tell nightmarish tales of those that took your blood. And tucked into bed at night those that heard such things felt the chill that descended down their spine as they thought over what had been told. But what did it matter? Here in your home, warm, safe… Of course such ignorance was apparent, tales of those who had been taken in their sleep remained devoid of them.

Mathye's hand was gripped tightly around his sister as if to reassure himself that she was still here and raucously he whispered, "For now…"

From where he had retreated Vorador watched them leave, taking the fallen Mortal with them with saddened looks, how easy it would have been to destroy them all, but such mannerism was far from him tonight, for some reason he felt uneasy, restless and yet he still remained to looking composed. Of course that was the key to everything, looking calm, in control, such an act in front of your enemies only wound them up more, which was perfect, it was the result he was looking for… make their lives hell. 

A couple of nights ago he had lost some of his own, just children in Vampiric reckoning, newly made, they hadn't stood a chance. He had heard their calls, brought to him through mind and through Zephyr, which was ever present, catching the leaves and rustling the foliage on the forest floor. 

When he had got to them the most enduring lament was present, the lingering of loss, the more apparent of emotion was anger and then the overall benefactor of sorrow which he hid until he found rest. 

It of course had been too late; he found their bodies descended upon high, hanging lifeless, impaled and left for all to see, a warning, a threat, done in the gesture of the Sarafan's favorite way of 'disposal' or 'purification' as they put it. They saw their mascaras of a way of 'purifying' ones soul, one who had once been Mortal and now warped into something that should have been long dead. Vorador scoffed at such remarks, and longed for the night when he could 'purify' those that said such things. 

The breeze stirred again, the voices of the Mortals were dying down as they headed back to their own town near by, heads down, Mathye, holding firmly onto his sister who remained silenced, expression blank... shock? And with them the body of the other Mortal, and thoughts of how they were to gently let his father know. 

Obviously they had decided against a pursuit, not that would have found him, because in honesty they would have not. Vorador smiled with such reassurance, perhaps in a couple of night's time he would return to the town and claim what was his. For now though there were other things to settle, hunger being one of them.

No more thoughts were spent on those that had just attempted to advance an attack; such an evolvement could happen many times, it wasn't worth the consideration. Still throughout his years of existence he now knew how to avoid such confrontations lest be caught up in the pillage of the Sarafan's 'Holy Wars', their sanction of purification. 

He had seen much, a witness to such things and the Sarafan had proved to be as of yet the biggest ailment to infect Nosgoth, it sickened him. More so it sickened him that those that stood by such carnage were those with power over the land. The Circle, a sordid gathering of hypocrites in Vorador's eyes, for they were the supporters of the Sarafan's ways. The so-called 'Protectors of Hope' were the patrons of pillage and the cohorts of unnecessary butchery. Having been witness of their ways many times his view of them was one of a low opinion.

The forest began to dwindle as he passed through it, trees becoming less and less as the boarder of a town appeared and along with it the scent of Mortal blood and the overall swell of his hunger once more.

Idealistic was the watch post that came into view, standing lonely against the backdrop of night. The watchman's companion had been right; it wasn't wise to fall asleep whilst on duty, so easily one could be taken and without a struggle.

Moments later he sat with the knowledge of another's as he had taken their life. 

And even though he had had his fill Vorador still felt at unease, yet he couldn't place where it was coming from, he couldn't pinpoint it. 

He discovered that the feeling of unease had nothing to do with blood lust, although it was linked to blood. This feeling he had, he had felt moments before when facing the young woman, and furthermore, it was more apparent now then it had been prior to it resurfacing.

The Vampire stood and left the watch post, wiping the remains of his feed from his mouth. He retreated to the darkness and the silhouettes of the trees. This feeling was one of uncertainty and it wasn't easily pushed aside either, in all accounts it was disturbing.

And then it happened, an element that was to push everything into motion. 

In Vorador's mind his senses picked out one of the most piercing screams he had ever heard. It was knife-like, cutting through his senses in an overall grating manner, nauseating to an extent. 

The Vampire frowned, massaging his temples and trying to sooth the sudden pain his mind felt.

The call he had heard had been Vampiric, and from such strong vocals, nothing but pain radiated…


	3. To Break a Soul

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**Chapter 2**

**To Break a Soul**

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They say your very life; your essence resides in the heart. Everything that is apparent in you radiates from the most important organ within ones body. To have such an element taken is not only to take life but also to extinguish spirit.

The vast cold night lay empty, it was unwelcoming and unforgiving, it was cruel and it was harsh, above all it remained to be a predator. Vorador welcomed it. 

As a predator himself the Vampire used the harshness of the night, and above all the darkness of such, as a valid ally. He embraced it with full potential, wrapping his essence around the threads of such and reappeared a short distance away from Ushtenheim, the hamlet standing strong against the oncoming bitterness of snow and ice. Currently such elements were already present, and in the night snow laden house roofs could look quite pretty as the moonlight filtered the whiteness.

Oh but what was this, what was this cruel feeling entrenched deep inside of him?

The scenery did nothing to dispel the graveness of what Vorador felt; in fact it made him feel worse. A sickening sentiment rose, one that made him feel disorientated and completely alone. 

The Vampire looked around, his claws already resting upon the hilt of his sword, and yet he knew that the danger he 'felt' was not his danger. Quite the contrary in fact, this danger was someone else's, and this was someone else's pain and someone elses suffering and someone else's **_'death…'_**

Death, the coldness that suddenly seized him brought him to that very conclusion. There was no warning, no prolonged scene or any dying words, no grand finale of a theatre production before it is the final curtain closes - it was just… _this._

No warning, a candles light being put out in a sudden breeze that was not even there before. A bitter conclusion.

It was almost like someone had whispered in Vorador's ears, the voice of Death itself, just passing within hair's breath of his own quintessence and just whispering that word to finalise anothers. 

The Vampire Vorador took a few steps forwards, his keen eyes fixed upon the scenery that unwound itself around him. Though the conclusion had been so swiftly brought to him he still had no clear realization of the actual matter that was apparent before him. A hesitation and then… 

This feeling of being incomplete something that had come moments before, swelling with the pain that he had also felt. 

This gap, this bitter twist in a void, where once someone's essence once dwelled, bound with his own, and what was there formerly had now been cruelly taken, stolen, swept away.

Once there had been someone else's mind dwelling within Vorador's own, along with his own there had been someone else's thoughts, opinions, feelings… And now they were no more. 

The Vampire had never felt alone even when he had seemed alone, for he could still sense the one who had created him close, hear his creators heartbeat, even converse with his creator over distances.

But now Vorador realized something that only silence could bring, and it was the harshest of realizations. He was now alone.

Vorador could no longer feel that 'presence' of his creator, of his Sire… There was no longer anything, but there was nothing, nothingness, that harsh element, the one to fill in that void in its empty delirium. 

To always have a presence close to him and then for it to be taken very swiftly was the malicious thing, and he thought that the silence that now echoed within his mind would drive him into madness.

At first there was trepidation and anxiety, and then finally dread for the foundations of what had come to pass, and why he hadn't been there to prevent it, why it had happened and there had been no warning. Panic at first like how a child would feel in just loosing a parent, and after all Janos had been Vorador's parent. Janos had been there since the beginning, guiding, advising, and yet forever waiting.

Yet the panic was to fade when he consoled himself, something had to come from this… _anger_… 

'**_Sire!_**' Vorador's mind hollered. But there was no reply, there was nothing, and in everyway nothing was everything. Oh the cruelness of this was unbelievable, '_please let it not be so_' was but a common plea that fell restlessly upon deaf ears. 

'**_Janos…_**' The situation was desperate, where it is you feel as if you are pounding your hands upon a wall of stone whilst your voice remains ignited with the name of another. And your hands begin to bleed the harder you pound, and when no reply is made you pound harder, yet there is no reply only the sound of your own voice echoing and the blood that falls from your wounded hands like tears. 

Janos… That name was but the requiem, the final sonnet spoken, it concluded everything. Janos Audron was lost to Nosgoth, for Janos was dead.

The one now left alone had hoped that this had been nothing more then a trick, some daft jest… But the longer the silence was drawn out, the loner the silence consumed him, the longer it made the truth.

Death… it had been Janos' death, that final Requiem had been for him...

~~~

In a moment of timelessness and emptiness a gentle flurry of snow stirred. Crisp flakes of innocence and purity which fell upon the Vampire, head bowed, sorrow being fought off with stifled silence.

Downy white drops dusted Vorador's shoulders. No one saw his distress, and he was glad of it, he couldn't be who he was if someone saw him in this way.

Janos' child fought with this conclusion and dropped to his knees, bypassing consistency and all clear thinking in hope of finding solace in the darker feelings, his claws clutching and digging deep into the ground as if to fight off the consuming sorrow. 

More snow falling, and as Vorador regarded the flakes all he could see upon the whiteness was blood, blood staining what was meant to be purely innocent.

The blood he imagined he could see soothed him within a deep translucent way, it brought a gentle peace and a resolution. 

When the moment passed, the snow was becoming uncomfortable. He starred at out at the horizon and highlighted the revelation of what death actually was.

To be forgotten, to be swept along within the tides of history, forgotten to the many yarns and threads of many life times. Was that what death was? 

Only Vorador would mourn him, Vorador and that of another figure, who was but a contradiction within history itself, and the others, the others would celebrate. 

Celebrate, the word grinded over within his mind.

Vorador's emotion shifted, the sorrow was slammed aside, and although still there something else was now beginning to take a hold of him.

The Vampire stood still, unmoving and allowing history to do what it willed, brushing over, around and past him like currents of water, resembling a very stone within a stream, a stubborn rock that would remain still whilst everything else passed it by. His claws were clenched together, his teeth gritted. 

He did not need to go any further, for Vorador knew the results all too soon, the consequences and again that hellish answer to that forever forged equation. To think, that time would be passing like this, how cruel, how cruel… Oh but sweet disappear how swift is that element to form, grasping at the very minds of all those who have loved and lost, only to love again and loose again, alas, 'tis how the circle moves, the cycles rotation, the formation, what is, what will be…

Silence complimented the bitterness of the cold, silence and resonant currents of passing time, whilst the wind stirred. This whole place, no longer pretty like it had been in times before, now it was just merely a spectre, one who watched, empty, alone and lost. 

Vorador lingered for only but a while longer; the emotion was unfathomable let alone slightly confusing. It was suddenly a fight between two bitter emotions, each a rival to one another, one that demanded he withdrew to mourn in a darkened corner, to swell in sorrow, whilst the other argued he should go out and destroy. 

He who had always been confidant had now been silenced and it 'twas in the cruellest of ways. In the entire of his existence he felt uncertainties, uncertainties and the forever hatred that was always there, that had always been there, always since the beginning, since the first time he witnessed the act of those who dominated this land. And now that hatred, that disgust was beginning to be aroused once more and it was soon to replace the sadness. 

Without another thought he took off into the night, unseen to others, unheard, but there. A twist within him formed, a darkening that only stirred further inside him.

The night underneath him lifted him high upon currents of longing, of wanting and now of nothing. His bat familiar hovered a while and then descended to set its sights on a new scene that had appeared before him on the lands below. 

Ah, a scene such as this was familiar, for he had seen it many times before, yet it did nothing but only increase the resentment he felt. 

Swiftly as the ground was close below so it was Vorador switched back to his usual appearance only to survey what beastly scene that also appeared here. 

Just a brief distance away from where the Vampire Vorador stood were the remains of those that had got in the way of this brutish act. Merely placed here as a threat, yet covered up with the opinion of purification. So this is how the damned were purified? By being left to die by mornings light, if the impalement and pain didn't wrench the lives out of them first. He could only hope that death had beckoned and guided them quickly. 

Yet, perhaps they had known all along that this was what awaited them, perhaps death had whispered within their ears within the first moment that they opened their new eyes to behold a new world through their new senses. Who knew? Who knew? Vorador certainly didn't know, and he knew not who did, maybe Janos had known once, maybe… But even Janos had lost hope, he who despite most things had always remained strong, and now to… think… this…

Looking upon the bodies Vorador was suddenly struck with the essence of this situation, the realization only became colder. Janos was no more, gone… Just like that. His passing had been but the faintest flicker upon the ever canvas of changing times, and in time history would warp his figure and image.

Rationality was lost, as was clear thinking, they had been lost from the first moments that Vorador had realised what had indeed happened. There was no need to think no more, no need to ponder, just react and allow a natural response to form. What was there to think about anyway, nothing, only but to dwell upon the very threads of… anger? Anger solved nothing, yet actions did, combined those two elements were the deadliest of enemies… and they would pay.

In taking one life from the papers of history so Vorador would take so much more.

He clenched his fists together tightly once more, eager with the newly formed proposition, there was only one way now, one way that called to him, and that was revenge. 

There would be a feast, and Vorador would drink the finest blood.


	4. The Fallen

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**Chapter 3**

**The Fallen  
**

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Blood tainted the stone floor, pooling over the rough surface and cascading down the cracks and crevices. The stagnant and suffocating stillness of moments past, remained to be the only witnesses to what had happened, all others who had seen the shadow that had stalked its prey – were now dead, their bodies – what were left of them, remained discarded upon the floor. This was the scene that awaited Malek as he entered the antechamber. 

The Paladin looked around the desolate room. Blood and blood and the bodies of the fallen, _it was too late…_ There was not one single living person left within this room, none. Empty shells of former Guardians lay useless upon the hard floor, their souls long gone, and there was no single note of respiration apart from that of Malek's. 

Malek took a step over the threshold; his mind tormented him by re-echoing their screams. With Moebius he had stood strong, confronting the demon that had posed a threat to the Circle. '_Raziel_', Moebius had called it, though Malek was not sure why, why it was such a decrepit creature such as that would have the name of one of his elite. Nevertheless, the Paladin did not question it, one thing he never did, for you never questioned those you are in service to. 

A feeling of dread plucked at Malek's soul as he regarded those bodies. This was his fault. They were dead because of him, had he come sooner then… The damndest confusion, this was the result, that through obeying one Guardian, so many more had been slaughtered. Where was the logic, and what was the result to be had by this? 

What was he to have done, disobey the Guardian of Time, putting Moebius at risk? Logic and rationality was lost to him. 

From the depths of darkness the shadows watched, whilst one of them moved. This silence that stirred was one of falseness, a moment that had been threatened into silence when all that moment wanted to do was scream out a warning. But any warning that could be past on, was passed on too late.

Behind the Paladin the form of the Vampire who had attacked and broken the Circle appeared, raising the hilt of his sword, only to bring it down on the Paladin's helm. Not a forceful strike, not one to cause damage, just a strike to get Malek's notice. The Vampire wanted Malek's full attention, he wanted a fair fight with this Sarafan warrior, for only then would he feel the fall satisfaction of revenge. 

The strike caught the Paladin off guard, exactly what the Vampire had intended. Malek turned suddenly and with recognition, bringing his weapon automatically up in a moment of defence. Harshly, so it was their brutal murderer, Vorador, confronted him. 

Vorador, Janos' child, _how fitting_. Though the revelation of such bit deep into Malek's mind, his pride as well as his loyalty to the Guardians, was becoming damaged. It had been Vorador who had done this, this Vampiric pestilence who had gotten into the Stronghold. The vestiges of blood upon the Vampire's sword, the cruel and disgusting thoughts that registered within Malek's mind from such, the fact that Vorador had fed from the ones he was meant to protect. Malek could not speak for his vocals had seized to function properly upon the facet of rage that he felt burn deeply within him. 

Rage can make one foolish, its only final asset is to have one fall to their knees; in moments of rage a mistake can cost you the finality of the curtain being drawn.

The Vampire Vorador felt nothing at that moment, though he acknowledged his victims own fears, which only gave him the feeling of more power. The only thing he focussed upon was revenge; all other emotions were locked away. No sadness, no regret… _Regret?_ Vorador would have laughed at even the suggestion of regret. What was there to regret? Regret the death of these? Why? Those who supported the slaughter of his kind were far from having regrets of their own, he knew this from sharing their thoughts when he had taken their life's flow. The hypocrites of pillage, the rape of Nosgoth, and murder and butchery of his own, – the Circle already had blood upon their hands; perhaps he had justly brought their end. 

No, there was no regret, nothing, no emotion, just pure loathing which was fortified in every strike that Vorador unleashed upon Malek – their so-called 'protector', 'Guardian of Guardian's', and yet he could not even be there at the time of their deaths. Vorador laughed, "_Pathetic_" he replied in answer to one of Malek's advancements.

Derived from this was the purest of pleasures, and Vorador would have delighted in spending the majority of the night there, tormenting Malek beyond his Mortal senses.

With a sudden clash, their weapons met in the middle of a flay, the blade of Vorador's sword against the midsection of Malek's halberd. Vampiric glare met that of the Sarafan; a pause for a moment as the challenges of both was passed through a silent and yet deadly element that emitted from both beings. 

"Even for Sarafan you are _weak_."

The word 'weak' made the anger inside the Paladin rise to an extended point. He had been many things throughout his life, but he had always made sure that he was never weak. 

"Weak?" Malek hissed through gritted teeth, grinding his own force behind his halberd, met in union to that of Vorador.

"And you would know all about weakness, would you not Vampire?" 

Vorador snarled and forced Malek back. The Vampire's strength, forged in the very fires of anger, though he remained in a manner like the one he had had in facing the hunters within the woods – resolute, emotionless. Being that way always made your enemy anger more, for were they not angering you? Nothing more was pleasurable to see an enemy try to get at you, only to find that they could not, this Vorador knew extremely well. 

Balance, Malek seized a hold of, steadying himself upon his feet once more, turning and unleashing a deadly combination of advancement – blades first, the halberd twisting within his gauntleted hands. He had been trained with his chosen weapon from a young age, advancing with his gift for fighting, at an unnatural pace. Malek had stood out from the others with his hunger to learn more, to learn the art of conflict, always striving to become the best combatant. And through the ranks he had evolved, quickly and at an unnatural young age. Though it was not surprising, Malek after all was Guardian of Conflict – though that factor had remained unknown within his early point of life. And now here he was. 

Vorador, Malek saw as his ultimate test, he had trained all of his life for this moment.

One of the halberd's blades grazed Vorador's skin lightly, though it did nothing to hinder the Vampire, and in a fluid movement the Paladin naturally eased himself into an attack. He parried himself forward, whilst the Vampire stepped back, fading from view just as Malek's blades pierced the space where he had been standing. 

The Vampire evaded around the Paladin, unseen to him, and then reappeared behind him once more, again slamming the hilt of his sword into the back of his adversary, snarling "Whelp…" as an insult to send Malek upon his way to the floor. 

An understanding was drawn between them, the understanding that they were both bitter enemies, that they both wished to destroy each other. Either one of them would have been contented to see their weapon skewer the skin of the other. They despised each other. 

Vorador would rejoice with the blood from Malek's carcass in a motion of celebration, like he had with the others, their blood flowing through him and alighting his senses. In the highlight of bloodlust he could do nothing more then laugh; laugh at their folly, at their pathetic cattle-like ways. They could run, they could hide, but he would _always_ find them.

This moment had brought fresh sentiments to the Vampire Vorador. With the first twisted thread of this situation he had been unthinking, though his passage into the Stronghold had been easier enough… _perhaps a little too easier_. Though it seemed, a majority of the Stronghold seemed to have their minds set on something else, like a majority of them had been alerted to look out for something though not necessarily Vorador. 

As Vorador had moved through the corridor to the antechamber he had considered this, though he was not sure what to think of it. For it was like another 'being' was working with him, and that very night it seemed that they feared something more then just Vorador.

But who was this other 'being', if one so existed… or perhaps it was only Vorador's mind working upon the damnation of loneliness, another offset caused by the loss of his creator, Janos. Maybe that is what it was, that within his mind he imagined that there was another 'being' that the Stronghold feared just to fill in that gap that his Sire had once filled. Perchance, that this 'essence', this 'creature', whatever it was that he could sense them fear, was the wrath of his Master? No, for Janos had no wrath let alone hatred within him… How different he had been compared to that of his son. 

Whatever it was, the Stronghold certainly seemed to be preoccupied with something else, and strangely he had found no resistance bestowed upon him in entering. It would not have mattered if he had of done, for it would have added to the enjoyment of the situation. To see blood spill added to the factor of vengeance, though it did not seem to satisfy him. How much blood spill was Janos worth? The answer was, a lot more then what was possible, but whatever happened, Vorador would at least try to avenge his Sire's death. Though it would not bring Janos back, and it could be questioned on whether it achieved anything, on the contrary it actually helped Vorador find an answer to the situation that had unfolded. 

The six Guardians had been poised over a basin watching, when fate had brought the conclusion of what they would receive in result of Janos' death. With every action there is a reaction, and for everything you take, so it _must_ be replaced. 

The doors opened abruptly, and it was the Guardian of States who looked up from the watery image they had been watching.

"_Vamp…ire…_" The words barely left his lips. The others looked up at the sudden intrusion, whilst their fellow Guardian collapsed, falling to the floor. A bloody hand mark was left smearing the sides of the basin from where he had tried to grip a hold of it for support. Yet the moment his hands had reacted at his wish to grip a hold of it, he was already dead.

The Circles gaze averted from their fallen comrade and then to the figure that stood in the doorway. 

"What is the meaning of this?" The Guardian of Balance had demanded an answer but Vorador had little to answer them for, except give them answers he knew they would not like, better yet, he preferred to show them.

_'What is the meaning of this?'_ Vorador considered the question for a moment, but only for a moment, before it was he drew his blade across one of them, _'Revenge'_. The Vampire smirked for a moment and then wrenched his sword from the Guardian's chest, wretched blood flowing from the fatal wound he had inflicted upon the human. The answer was simple – revenge, not just for Janos, but also for all the children of the night that had been lost at a result to their own ignorance.

That movement, as the second lay dying on the floor, separated the group, and they dispersed like a flock of sheep. Some breaking away in hope of making for the doorway, another backed away into a corner, and the Guardian of Dimension called to their protector, her voice igniting the Stronghold with powerful vocals, echoing around the antechamber – the name of the Paladin, "Malek!"

Without hesitation Vorador did away with her, if not to just purely silence her. Though she screamed as his own element of power took to work on her, her skin dissolving from bone. A painful death but one well deserved so the Vampire concluded, wiping the remains of the blood from another one of the Guardians, away from his face. 

This situation could have been concluded as being madness, a Vampire walking into the Sarafan Stronghold and facing six of the Guardians. This was the element of legends, but Vorador thought nothing of it, nothing of it as he fed from the fallen and drew his blade out of the skin of another. They wielded great power, but he was unafraid, after all he was the child of Janos Audron – and he had to bring a conclusion and reason to Janos' death or Vorador knew he would never be able to find peace. 

Perhaps Vorador was fearless because it no longer mattered to him; he was there for absolute revenge. If he left that hellish dwelling of humans afterwards then that was but a bonus, though not necessarily a blessing. And he took each moment as it came, indeed he was there for retribution, and if he left, he left knowing that what was left was nothing but nothingness and that element of emptiness. 

That was not to say that he wished to die though, quite the divergent, he was just prepared to risk everything if it meant he could scar the Mortal world beyond belief. Take from the Vampiric world, and they would pay dearly… 

Throughout it all came the calls for their protector Malek, though he had yet to respond. And as Vorador swept through the antechamber he always had his sense attuned to the room so that he could respond suddenly should the Paladin appear. 

Laughter, "Call your dogs – they can feast on your corpses!" 

The last Guardian had been a coward, attempting to hide and at the same time trying to build up the strength he needed in mind to build up his power.

However, just as he was harnessing the elemental flow of quintessence he needed, he noticed the fell shadow that was suddenly cast upon the floor. In a moment of fear his concentration was lost, images of what had happened to his fellow Guardians played ripe in his mind, and the harnessed power he nearly wielded was lost to him. The Guardian now knew that nothing was left but defence, and so with hands brought to his face he had faced his fate, and Vorador had finished him off easily enough. 

Is this how the fledglings looked when humanity hunted them? Still young and defenceless, not ready yet to protect themselves entirely, though some tried to attack, for what little good it did against a group of Mortals. But when there was a last moment left within them, they considered it was better to at least attempt to fight, though it was done in vain.

The others that did not fight merely cowered within the corners of darkness, just hoping that they could avoid the hunters glance. Though none where spared. 

It was Vorador who was now seeing it as his task to provide shelter to those Vampires, though it mattered not whether they were Fledgling or elder, if they needed sheltering, protecting they would find it with Vorador. A fledgling in need of guidance and security would find it with Vorador, for it pained him to see the loss of his own and the decline of his kind.

From the last Guardian Vorador took enough blood to sustain his thirst, though his energy was running upon pure adrenalin alone. It was as he had just finished feeding and was wiping away the remains, when he had heard the reply to what had been their calls to Malek. It seemed that only now was the Paladin responding.

Vorador turned to the doorway, wiped his blade and chuckled, his image despising and merging with the room just as the Paladin Malek entered.

The Vampire brought up his sword for one final strike, the blade launched at Malek in suddenness. There was a suspension and lull within time, the Guardian of Conflict watched the blade come deadly before him, and then he reacted. Halberd brought up in defence, Malek put all his force in that one defensive moment, diverting Vorador's blade away from any susceptible area that would result in any blood being drawn from a cut against the skin. As Malek got to his feet Vorador's sword grated against his chest plate. In result the Paladin sidestepped, the Vampire staggered forwards, whilst Malek turned brusquely and unexpectedly, aiming once more for Vampiric flesh.

Just as Malek's blade was about to go into its target, once again Vorador disappeared. This gift of teleportation bestowed upon the Vampire could have infuriated Malek to no ends; however, Malek calmed himself in being highly disciplined and patient. Besides, he had a few tricks of his own, should the Vampire remain in one place long enough for Malek to unleash them.

Malek sensed the Vampire close by and turned just as Vorador was launching another strike, though the Paladin's movement was not swift enough. The Paladin received another strike to his chest plate, a move that caught him off guard. Backwards the Sarafan moved luring the Vampire into his own deadly dance, he had fought enough in his time to know their weaknesses. 

The Paladin took a deep breath and readied himself, finishing and focussing his mind to conclusions that would rally him forward in ultimate determination. Though Malek was not sure what cruel ploy fate was dealing him within this moment, he was damn well certain that this vile, murdering bastard would not escape the hold with his soul still intact. The revelation of such filled his body with more adrenaline, pushing him forwards, and two beings upon the path of revenge, both going either way, clashed. 

Nonetheless, there can only be one victor and one is chosen to fall. For this moment it was clear whom fate had chosen. 

Malek stumbled, though attempted to remain firm, yet balance was slipping, as was his rationality. The calm mind of the warrior that he had always tried to uphold deserted him. Throughout their battle both minds of Vampire and Sarafan had been set on vengeance. Vorador in revenge for his race and Sire, Malek for humanity and the Guardians he was meant to protect.

_Protect_… in revelation he staggered once more, just as the Vampire disappeared yet again. The moment of self-doubt made Malek most vulnerable, standing still for but a moment, the bodies of the Guardians still around him, lifeless upon the floor. 

Not one thing made sense, that demon… _Raziel_… Moebius had called it. And Malek had been faithful to Moebius, always faithful, loyally obeying his orders whilst in here… In here the floor was bathed in blood. In obeying and being loyal to one, he had lost so many more, and he was faced with the death of six of the Guardians. Did their blood scar Malek's own hands? Were they dead because of him? He could not account for the moments, but one thing remained certain, he should have been there to protect the Circle. 

Another blow sent Malek to his knees. The loyal Sarafan remained still; he did not even attempt to get back up. And upon the floor, the Paladin allowed his armour to become hinted with the blood from the floor, his garb soaking up parts, purple textile being eaten up by crimson essence. 

Momentarily Malek's grip around his weapon tightened whilst his other hand tightened into a fist. But the moment was brief and before long the halberd slipped from his grasp. 

The sudden darkness of this moment consumed him; Malek knew he had failed them. The Paladin's dignity and honour were torn apart by this pestilence that had gotten into the Stronghold and slain six Guardians... _six_… Malek's pride and nobility scattered, only to fall amongst the blood of the Circle. His honour was stained with their blood, a stain that he would never be able to remove, and it wounded him mentally. 

He had failed them all. 

Vorador lingered for a moment over Malek's fallen form; he could have finished the Paladin there and then but decided for his own enjoyment, against it. And so the Vampire withdrew, leaving his echoing threads of laughter to mock the fallen. 

The Vampire's reasons for not finishing off the Paladin were simple. Malek was a proud man; nothing would be more of a punishment then a mortal such as him living on knowing that he had failed those he had sworn to protect. Death for Malek would be too much of a release; it would be too easy for someone like the Paladin. No it was best to let him live on and suffer in torment knowing that he would always been too late to save the Circle, that no matter how fast he would run down that corridor, he would always be too late. 

Amongst the disarray so was Janos' child, the one who had spawned Chaos upon them. Unseen, he lingered for just a brief moment in the corridor as the first guard discovered the massacre within the antechamber, meanwhile not far away, other parts of the Stronghold were also in pandemonium. The Vampire could sense it, rioting throughout the structure, and then sudden peace… He knew that this was the lull before the storm, and now was the time to leave. 

The deed had been done, revenge concluded. 

Vorador withdrew to watch in satisfaction of how the Sarafan Stronghold reacted to this stratagem. Six members of the Circle, six of them destroyed, for a while at least the Vampiric race would find peace, at least for a while whilst the Circle remained broken, at least until it was a new one rejoined. He only hoped that the newer members would be a lot better then the old; perhaps they could change the ways of Nosgoth. Although that was questionable, for how could they, when three of the older remained? Three older members to corrupt the minds of the younger, and no doubts the Time Streamer would want his say in matters. 

A shrug, Vorador did not care, his link to the Circle had been always through Janos, and now that Janos was gone he had no need to concern himself with such matters. Janos had wrapped his whole essence around the Pillars, around his own duty, he had been fiercely loyal… and what had the loyalty achieved him in the end? Oblivion. Vorador was certain he would not fall sway to that, nor would he become the slave to fate. 

The lull remained obsolete, in a matter of moments so much had taken place, the wheels of fate had been set into motion, and history had been placed upon the paths of yet another revolution. Time remerged and altered itself to fit the new alteration, whilst everything else around it continued to act out what had already been written. 

A bat descended next to the Pillars, for a moment Vorador switched back into Vampiric form. No one was about, and the Pillars seemed peaceful, like they were resting in some eternal slumber. Though he would not openly admit it, he could not help but admire their beauty. Of course Mortal hands did not work such fine structures, not even they could craft such beauty.

He stared at the structures, this being his last link he had to Janos, yet he felt distant from them, and although he admired the Pillars he did not like them. They had always kept him from his Sire, his Sire always upholding his duty. In that aspect Vorador resented the structures, and now he resented the structures because instantly the Mortals thought that they were theirs… They had already begun to forget their history. And now their Guardians were Mortal; their Guardians were the ones that stood by the destruction of the Vampiric kind, their Guardians were the ones that had stood by the death of Janos Audron, _they had stood by the death of one of their own…_

The quietness of the night was a strange contrast compared to that of the entire melee that had happened within the Stronghold, the clash of weapons and before that the call for help. And now, outside there was peace. He regarded the Pillars once more, though he did not like them, they strangely brought him peace, enough peace for him to put aside the turmoil in his own mind and consider the moments. 

Indeed revenge had been concluded though it did nothing to quell the loneliness. And the moments had passed, and he had acted upon what he had thought was right, though he had also acted out of anger. Whatever had been the catalyst to his reaction, Vorador cared little of it, and all the emotions of earlier returned, and loneliness was more powerful then before. There was no one to share this conquest with. A majority of his children had become lost to Nosgoth, and now his Sire, the latest victim. Not that his Sire would have entirely approved of his actions within the Stronghold, though it had been done for him. 

_Something was needed for this loneliness… _

Vorador turned his back on the Pillars and began to walk away, renouncing the affairs of mankind and damning all those caught up in it. 


End file.
